Seeking the Banshee Queen
by Ihsan997
Summary: At the onset of the Battle for Azeroth, a knight of the Ebon Blade grows disillusioned with the false neutrality which resigned during Legion. Despite more crimes and burned bridges than he'd care to remember, his heart yearns for the drums of war upon the fall of Undercity. 6 chapters
1. Opening

Silent. Cold. Dark. Musty.

Boring.

So many words in the thesaurus to describe life in Acherus, yet so little motivation to bother describing it. Such was the life of those called back from death to combat the Burning Legion.

High above the Broken Isles, the necropolis of those sworn to an existence between black and white hovered. For countless hours they watched, eyeing the Broken Shore to ensure that the demons they'd finally conquered remained within the confines of their ruined world. Long after the final war against the demonic entity had come to an end, the Ebon Blade remained in stasis both literally and figuratively. Between factions, between continents, between life and death, they continued their vigil of political neutrality. In doing so, they condemned themselves to irrelevance, fading from the memory of the living and the dead.

Deep within the confines of the library of Acherus, one of their rank carried out his monotonous ritual of analyzing every log of field combat he could find. Scrolls from different eras and civilizations laid out before him, organized on an ancient table which every other inhabitant of the Ebon Hold knew was permanently reserved. Nearly every armed conflict in the history of Azeroth and Outland was detailed in that library, as well as in the black-clad reader's personal journals. Annotations and diagrams filled new volumes as if the lone reader was uncovering a great secret to how wars were won and lost. Alone in the dark with only an hourglass and a single candle as companions, the black knight scribbled away.

After a period of seventy-two straight hours throughout which the warrior-scholar didn't leave his seat, the weathered door of the cramped claustrophobic's nightmare that was the library swung open. The uneven gait of a geist reached his ears, muffled by the common courtesy of shoes and gloves that he'd forced his minion to wear. Not wanting to lose his train of thought, he ignored the undead serial killer until he finished the passage he'd been penning.

Only when he was finished did he look up into the geist's one good eye. He tapped his gauntlet on the table expectantly.

A sound like a broken water faucet sputtered inside of the burlap bag tied around her face, causing him to consider hiring a surgeon to give her a more functional vocal organ. "Bring news, news," the geist spat. "News for master, news about news."

Although he hadn't spoken in three days, his own voice came through clear and deep, functioning well like most of the rest of his body. "You've interrupted me. I assume this is breaking news, in that case."

The geist rubbed her hands excitedly. "Bring big news, best news. News about the Queen."

An old, cold heart felt a pinprick of warmth. He found it strange how both joy and sorrow carried the same feeling of heat within him. Not wanting to pull open an old wound, he shook his head and tried to wave his minion away. "She is not my Queen...not anymore," he sighed. "My citizenship with the Forsaken isn't likely to be reactivated."

Rather than cower away, his minion bobbed up and down eagerly. "Best news better. Bring best news, Brittany does. News about new war. News about call for action. News about warring factions." Her garbled words caught his attention, and when he leaned back in interest, she began to wave her hands. "Yes, master listens! Good news, Brittany bring good news. Brill destroyed!"

The chunk of ice that was his heart stiffened and grew brittle. "What!" he gasped, closing his journal. "What on Azeroth are you talking about?"

Oblivious to any sentimental connection her master may have had, the geist rolled off her entire laundry list of current events. "Yes, yes, Brill destroyed! Undercity ruined! Tirisfal lost! Revenge by Alliance!"

"What in the blazes...how is this even possible?" The studious death knight braced his head with his hands, trying to cope with the speed at which the information was coming. "Brill was my city, once...wait, what do you mean by destroyed? What happened?"

"Hhrrrnnmmm, destroyed, destroyed, yes! Horde destroyed dark elf cities, burn dark elf tree city, Queen's orders! Alliance take revenge, destroy Undercity. Destroy Brill. Survivors found, but very few, yes!" The geist sputtered into her bag mask again, but her master was too shocked to think of ways to fix her speech impediment.

"By the shadow...my former life...I still had friends there. I don't know if they would have spoken to me again, after what my kind did to the dragonflights, but damn it all. What about survivors? Do you have any more specific news?"

The geist shook her head. "No more. Just that survivors exist, and not many. Most of Tirisfal Glades, uninhabitable. Poisoned for the living and the undead. Forsaken relocated to Durotar. Kalimdor for Horde; Eastern Kingdoms for Alliance."

Shooting away from the table, the black knight pondered his former life and the loved ones lost. As if his servitude to the Ebon Blade couldn't be any worse, he now had to cope with the fact that all of his bridges outside had truly been burned. Without any connection to another soul outside of Acherus, he was stuck without much of a purpose beyond fighting the battles of politicians he despised.

Unless...

"You said the Horde and the Alliance have attacked each other?"

More bobbing up and down signaled his geist's delight, as well as her obliviousness. "Yes, yes! Factions united to fight the Legion, destroyed peace thereafter!"

Slowly, the death knight rose from his chair. On instinct, he felt his ring finger for a long lost signet taken from him. A gift from Sylvanas Windrunner, it was, years prior when he'd sworn fealty to her throne in Undercity. He'd given it up when the Ebon Blade's politics had led to his exile from Tirisfal, through no fault of his own. Even beneath his plate gauntlets, that finger felt colder than usual without the signet ring. Memories of a new life rebuilt taunted him, reminded him of the multiple losses he'd suffered since the opening of the Dark Portal. But he'd suffered those multiple losses because he'd rebuilt his life multiple times.

Taking his great helm from a nearby shelf and strolling toward the weathered door, the black knight paused briefly before exiting. "Brittany, collect everything I own and lock it in my chest. Except for the candle - I don't need that. Wait by the portal to Dalaran when you're finished."

The geist's head twitched oddly, but the one good eye lit up and the defunct eye nearly opened. "Yes, wait by the portal I will!" she sputtered.

Moving with as much purpose as an unsleeping, undying being could, the undead knight swept down the narrow halls of Acherus. Despite the swelling in population following the Legion's defeat, those halls could hardly be called busy; with most of the Ebon Blade's ranks concentrated in the arena in the top level, the majority of the necropolis was empty. Uninterrupted on his stroll, he found his thoughts well organized by the time he reached a lesser-used balcony toward the backside of the floating ziggurat.

Set apart from the other categories of minions, a flock of val'kyr loitered on that isolated balcony overlooking the ocean. By the standards of undead, the partially incorporeal spirits of bonded vrykul warriors were talkative with one another, and a few separate conversations took place simultaneously. One singular valkyrie warrior, seated rather than hovering, occupied a corner far away from her fellows. The stoic outcast almost didn't notice the death knight approaching until the other val'kyr began to whisper among themselves.

The lone val'kyr stood to receive them, obviously upset by the reaction of the others but working to hide it. After saluting with a fist over her heart, she stood at attention and waited for her commander to speak first. Despite the mount of thinking he'd done, his final statement was relatively simple.

"I'm leaving," he told her.

Simple words, but the weight they carried was considerable. Even when her face from the nose up was concealed, her cheeks, mouth, and chin were like an open book. Confusion transformed into a distant sense of apprehension, and he soon regretted his brevity.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

He shook his head, unable to contain the many long months of frustration building up. "I'm leaving the Ebon Blade, Runa. I've had enough. I'm going to tell them right now."

Disbelief marked her visible features to the point where he imagined she'd gone cross-eyed beneath her helmet. "But...there's nowhere else to go. We've already discussed this. The dragonflights...the infiltration of Undercity...the death knights have burned too many bridges. The rest of us associated with this place are just as screwed."

"Undercity has fallen, Runa."

"I know that; I already heard. Everything we'd had in Brill, our whole community is gone."

"Think of it, though: Brill is gone. Undercity is gone. The factions are at war. These class order halls, they're useless now. There's no more truce to fight a greater threat. Both sides have bled and they need reinforcements. Sylvanas leads the entire Horde now. This is the chance to get out of this place - to request our citizenship be reinstated."

For a brief moment, a glimmer of hope appeared in the way her black lips parted, but she couldn't let herself believe such luck to be possible. "I don't know...we're safe here, so to speak. Out there," she said while sweeping her hand toward the waves southward, "we have no idea what to expect. We could lose what we have here."

"What do we have here, Runa? Really?"

"I...we...well..." She sighed, more in sorrow than defeat. "You know how I feel about being forced into this. About being here. At least you had the dignity of being sent formal communication to give you the illusion of choice; I was jumped in the woods and had a bag tied over my head by these bitches," she said while nodding toward the other val'kyr, who'd already began to snicker in their little cliques. There was obviously no love lost given how Runa had essentially been kidnapped by her fellows in order to increase the Ebon Blade's ranks of the winged warriors. "It's not like I want to stay here."

"So why not leave?" he asked.

"Because there isn't anywhere else we can go. We're still under pariah status."

"We can't continue like that forever. I won't continue like that. We served and did our time, and achieved more than the rest of these fools have. I'm done being a pawn for an irrelevant organization. If leaving puts me at risk of being completely factionless, then so be it. We faced down Argus; we can face down Azeroth too, if need be."

He paused momentarily, waiting to see if she'd at least be receptive to the idea. Her interest was as clear as her anxiety, which was about as much as he could hope for. "Will you come with me?" he asked softly.

Like his initial statement, his final question caught her off guard. She spent a few seconds just standing there trying to process the question, having barely processed the prospect of her only true ally leaving. A measure of conflict played out in her surprisingly animated expressions, and she frowned deeply by the end. For a few seconds, he wondered if he'd overestimated how much they trusted each other. Doubt crept into his mind in spite of her success as his flag bearer and shieldmaiden on the battlefield, and he worried that he'd miscalculated his odds for the first time in many decades.

As soon as she spoke, however, she dispelled any fears he may have held. "I'm offended that you even feel the need to ask," she replied, still frowning. She held out her larger hand to his - although he was big for an undead human, she was still about a head taller than him - and allowed him to take it. "You're the only commanding officer I'll accept."

He bowed his head graciously, happy to have the only connection to his life with the Forsaken joining him. "You're the only standard bearer my armies could ever have," he replied. She smiled at their agreement but then winced at the continued comments by the other val'kyr on the balcony. "The geist is waiting for us at the portal to Dalaran. We must make haste."

Her irritation at the others on the balcony disappeared, and she grinned wide enough that she tried to suppress it. "Absolutely," she said, more confident than she'd been before.

She followed him as they reentered the building proper, walking toward the main hall. The sound of voices reached them early, and the black knight donned his helmet just as they entered the main atrium. Though a handful of minor officials and notables stood near the walls and silently observed, the discussion was taking place around the strategic planning table in the center. There, those considered the decision-makers for the Knights of the Ebon Blade stood. The Four Horsemen, top adventurers of both factions, and a few significant recruiters stood around the table bearing maps of the same paths already secured in the Broken Isles. In the center was a single speaker holding everyone's attention, so much so that nobody noticed the upstart death knight and val'kyr approach the table without permission, breaching all unspoken rules of decorum at Acherus.

Pompous and pretentious as always, the Deathlord dictated to the Four Horsemen as if there was still activity of any import happening in the Broken Isles. None of them realized they'd been interrupted until the intentional faux pas could no longer be avoided.

In one fluid motion, the black knight removed a single glove from his belt and cast it down. The felt garment without a twin struck the table with a loud patting sound. Ink splattered across the organization's plans, breaking everyone's concentration. Too taken aback to even be offended, the Four Horsemen backed away from the table to regard the newcomer. Their leader paused in mid sentence, failing to take initiative.

"General Garamonde reporting," the black knight said in front of everybody. "And I challenge the Deathlord to a duel."


	2. The Duel

Even among a dishonorable bunch of miscreants like the Ebon Blade, there were certain rules of decorum in public. There were still boundaries they adhere to, still social mores they all understood and accepted. The funny thing about unwritten rules, though, is that nobody can really enforce them. In the absence of a formalized system of ritual, only the mutual respect of the group members for one another actually maintained the intangible hierarchy.

The irony, of course, was the fragility of such an arrangement.

Dozens of eyes all rested on the black knight named Garamonde at the center of the atrium. Even those on the periphery of the area, partially concealed by column and curtains, stared with bleary eyes at the one upstart who'd dared to disrupt the harmony of their drab, oppressive set of habitualized relations. The usual club of VIPs in the center of the level had lost the attention of their underlings entirely as recent recruits, longtime members, specialist officials, and even minions all gaped at the affront to their whole organization. The Four Horsemen had allowed their decrepit visages to contort into outward displays of shock and awe at a sentient adventurer they'd come to regard as little more than a minion, automatically conceding more power than they realized.

At the head of the disrupted table was the onerous leader of it all, the Deathlord. Self-absorbed as many leaders of guilds and orders could be, the supposed leader of all death knights momentarily lost all authority upon the initial failure to react. Despite the fearsome reputation, the Deathlord merely gawked at the inkwell overturned by Garamonde's cast glove. Murmurs broke out among the class order's recruits, further signaling the lapse in control the organization's leadership experienced.

Too late to effectively shout down the threat to stability, the Deathlord was brought down to the level of threatening displays. The cumbersome suit of armor creaked as the Deathlord took the first heavy step forward. The impractically spiky armor concealed all aspects of the Deathlord's identity underneath. The observer couldn't discern the class leader's race, age, size, or gender, and the warped voice echoed with such a hollow ring that it almost sounded androgynous.

"How...dare you," the Deathlord hissed with an insincere indignation and fraudulently deep voice. Although the rank and file in the atrium seemed intimidated, Garamond was simply irritated as the Deathlord began a miniature diatribe. "Who in the hell do you think you are? You interrupt my daily planning meeting? In my order hall?"

Onlookers gasped, even a few of the ghouls who gurgled nervously. Ink continued to spread across the planning table until the map of the Broken Isles was ruined, entirely soaking and ruining Garamonde's last dueling glove as well. Disgusted by the sincere respect so many capable troops held for such a do-nothing leader, Garamonde refused to grant the Deathlord any satisfaction in steering a confrontation.

"I haven't approached this order hall to squabble with you," Garamonde said, his voice rising in pitch with amused incredulity. "I'm here for a paid exit."

"Exit?" the Deathlord bellowed, hushing the gawkers as if the booming voice were impressive in and of itself (it wasn't). "You're a pawn, General; don't you know what you are?"

"The General, occasionally termed the Queen in some regions, is a far more powerful piece than the pawn...pawns don't exercise autonomy. A General can, and this General will, by buying his way out."

Icy blue eyes glimmered angrily, and the supposedly fearless leader of the Ebon Hold stuttered a few times while trying and failing to find the right words. "You...ernn...refusal...you're a pawn!" the Deathlord huffed while jabbing an angry finger. "You have no automation, atomization, and you have no say over whether I deem it fit to keep you in my service or not!"

As if the territorial marking could be any more pedantic, the Deathlord reached behind its spiky helmet and pulled out an almost comically oversized runeblade. The sword gleamed and shined, humming with icy enchantments but jerking awkwardly in the Deathlord's hands. Despite the impractical nature of a sword with a blade over a foot wide, the Ebon recruits all gasped again at their leader's threatening display.

Sally Whitemane, Garamonde's handler among the Four Horsemen, appeared particularly incensed. "General, respect the sanctity of this ziggurat!" she hissed at her charge. "Cease this grandstanding, or I won't be able to continue covering for you!"

Empowered by the slavish devotion of disciples, the Deathlord spoke with a renewed fervor. "Yes, General, don't risk losing your protector!"

Deeply insulted, Garamonde could only lower his head and chuckle lowly. The crowd that had gathered along the perimeter of the atrium began to whisper among themselves as the seeming act of defiance on his part, failing to realize that impressing anybody was the farthest thing on his mind.

"Protector?" the black knight chuckled. Despite the vows of humility he'd taken in life, he'd already borne one slur too many. He could no longe hold back. "The most successful field commander of the Ebon Blade needs a protector?" he asked rhetorically while holding out an open palm in a quest inint gesture. "The only officer the class order trusted to break the gates of Antorus needs protection?"

Comfortably but not slowly or menacingly, Garamonde reached for his own weapon of choice. His Bec de Corbin, a recent military development from his homeland in Hillsbrad, shined with its own runes but more easily laid in his hands given its more functional design. The war hammer didn't impress the onlookers as much, but luck for him, he didn't give a damn about what people thought of him and was only focused on achieving his goals.

"Are you trying to talk your way out of this?" Garamonde asked suspiciously.

An immature, nearly petulant gasp emitted from the recruits, reminding the black knight of another reason why he was so unhappy in Acherus. Offended and outraged, the Deathlord visibly shook at the taunt. "You, how dare you!" the supposed class leader for all death knights booked into the atrium. A cycle of wraiths haunting the chandelier dissipated, and the torch sconces flickered. "There will be no mercy for you! You have your duel!"

Even Garamonde had to admit that his cold heart felt warmed upon his opponent's response. Months of resentment welled up inside and compelled him to release a wide grin he'd been holding back. "En garde!" he replied while taking up a defensive stance.

Metal screeched and scraped on metal as the Deathlord hefted that unwieldy runeblade. Nobody knew the exact species or dimensions of the Deathlord's body; whether the person beneath was a de-horned Tauren wearing a single layer of thin plates or a gnome wearing a veritable automated suit was a mystery. The jerky movement made the truth difficult to guess - just as it made a proper battle stance difficult to execute.

The Deathlord's unnecessarily wide bracers and armlets pushed and conflicted, preventing the arms from bending, and the ridiculously oversized pauldrons prevented a full overhead swing. Garamonde questioned his own mercy when he didn't strike first, but he felt it dishonorable to simply overwhelm his opponent without a fighting chance - even one he disliked so much on a personal level. Every slight, every act of disrespect he'd suffered while serving the Ebon Blade tempted him to end the duel in one blow, but old habits died hard; even in undeath, the vows he'd one taken as a Knight of the Silver Hand prevented him from an easy kill.

Easy it would have been, for the Deathlord struggled with the runeblade. Fabled as the leader of all death knights and their champion who rubbed elbows with Alleria and Illidan and all the other notables, the Deathlord did surprisingly little fighting. To be fair, most of the leaders of the class order halls had their minions and recruits fight for them, but Garamonde never had the misfortune of dealing with him. Only the Deathlord had earned so much resentment, and only the Deathlord was sorely disappointing him with such a tortoise-like opening to their duel.

After raising the blade to chest level, the Deathlord grunted and strained from the effort, clutching the blade close to simply avoid dropping it. The energy of moving such a huge hunk of metal was painfully obvious, and the shoulder pauldrons which were about twice the size of the helmet greatly restricted movement of the arms. Enchantments on the suit of armor augmented the Deathlord's strength, allowing for a single thrust of the blade, but the move was telegraphed and easy to avoid. Rather than swing back hard, Garamonde simply thrust his own weapon right back, using the spearhead on top of his Bec de Corbin as a stopper. The spike slipped into the gap between the Deathlord's pauldron and chestplate, sinking into the cold flesh beneath.

A group of ghouls in the back of the atrium babbled excitedly, though the rest of the audience watched so intensely that nary a sound could be heard from them. The Deathlord, on the other hand, grunted when the spearhead was pulled out and then caused a great clamor by dropping the runeblade to the floor for a brief moment. Clearly handicapped by the strategic stab, the arrogant leader couldn't lift the weapon a second time without casting a strength-buffing spell, and Garamonde had seen enough.

Fueled by moral loathing at such a fraud being called a knight, Garamonde finally swung aggressively. His war hammer moved swiftly, having been designed with perfect weight distribution for realistic use in combat. The head of the striking end could fit in the palm of his hand thus concentrating all the force of a swing into a small area. The sound of the hammer smashing into the Deathlord's chestplate caused a few recruits as well as Koltira Deathweaver to cover their ears. All the blunt trauma was focused on a small diameter, transferring the power of the swing right through the metal armor and into the abdomen beneath. The Deathlord may have groaned, but nary a sound could be heard over the crackle of the supposed leader's dilapidated rib cage internally splintering and the clash of a properly forged Bec de Corbin leaving a sizeable dent in a thorium breastplate. Like a knockout punch, the hammer blow caused most of the sentients watching to wince in phantom pain, and the uselessly long and heavy runeblade clattered on the stone floor like a punctuation mark at the end of a poetic putdown.

Much in the fashion of an Ashenvale purplewood tree being felled by orcs, the Deathlord lurched in the similitude of a gravity well. Those microseconds stretched into hours as the one feared champion of Ebon Hold tried to resist the simple effect of mass and balance. Thus was the final collapse delayed, made all the more magnificent by the heavy crash of a suit of armor so heavy it couldn't possibly have been created with proper frontline battle in mind.

Brought to hands and knees, the Deathlord merely stared at the floor in shock. The sense of unfair surprise was tangible as the head of their class order bowed in disbelief at having been defeated in front of all the hall's underlings. Then again, Garamonde knew from experience that a proper duel typically lasted only thirty seconds anyway, and he stood out like an unhurt thumb amongst sore fingers in his total lack of surprise. Even Runa felt pleasantly gifted with the opportunity for an escape she'd long though impossible, all in a matter of moments. Not even the class leader's own ghoulish assistant could muster the presence of mind to outwardly react, such was the stunning silence which filled Acherus.

For the first time in many years, Garamonde felt the emptiness inside of himself give way to a sense of true pride. Even when he'd led the charge at Antorus, ahead of all class leaders, he'd felt little joy given the fact that he'd been robbed of his autonomy and freedom of choice. This, however...this is an event he'd actually record in his journals.

With the Deathlord at his knees, Garamonde wasted no time. There would be no monologue, no ironic soliloquy, no eulogy, nor a final address. Just as he'd been robbed of his right to choose his own destiny when he'd been coerced into the organization, he'd grant his fallen opponent no dignity in permanent death.

Garamonde raised his weapon. Unable to even rise into a kneeling position, the Deathlord could only reach for his boot. "Wait!" the Deathlord cried for the last time.

Garamonde waited, but only by his own choice. "En fin de compte, la mort nous réclame tous," he whispered before the coup de grace.

The backside of the war hammer came down, cutting through the air with the sharp war pick instead. What pleased the black knight the most wasn't the way the Deathlord screamed just prior to impact; nor was it the 'omg' that Koltira gasped as their class order was beheaded; nor was it the utter disbelief on Whitemane's insufferable face when her former charge surpassed her; nor was it the way that half of their audience flinched when the war pick broke straight through the Deathlord's plate helmet and destroyed both brain and spine in a single strike. No, what pleased Garamonde the most was the way that all the so-called loyalists gawked and jostled for position to stare.

As whispers and speculation rose from the crowd wondering about the former Deathlord's true identity, the victor pulled his hammer's pick out of the wound and wiped it on the victim's cape. By the time he'd glanced up, the non-sentient inhabitants of the Ebon Hold stirred. One by one, they began to kneel, scraping their decrepit bones on the floor in order to pay tribute to the winner of the duel.

Not all of the sentient denizens were so hesitant, either. Most of the regular staff took their cues from the ghouls and ghosts, showing deference without hesitation. Koltira in particularly seemed relieved that the unknown soldier was no longer their leader, proudly holding a fist over his heart. All of the Four Horsemen eventually knelt as well, though Whitemane jerked and swayed as if her body and mind were locked in conflict over whether or not she should really do it. Eventually, however, they all acknowledged the result.

Koltira spoke for the group. "We march under your command, Deathlord," he said to Garamonde deferently.

The silence lingered for a few seconds as nervous eyes darted around, searching for any more potential challengers. Nobody dared to stand up or speak out, as if defeating the fraud who'd once led them constituted a sort of achievement, and the black knight shook his head at how much respect they'd all held for a phony. Distaste for adulation mixed with contempt for the lack of fortitude they'd all shown when they'd willingly answered to such an unworthy leader; he'd had enough.

"No thank you."

From his belt, Garamonde produced a resignation letter he'd penned many months ago when he'd initially been coerced into the class order. He'd daydreamed of this moment for so long, and he could almost feel his heart stir and beat a few times as he held the paper between his fingers. A relaxed, satisfied man again, he casually tossed the letter onto the planning table, right next to the felt glove. He left them both as parting gifts to the group, alongside the Ebon Blade tabard he tore off loudly and left on the floor behind him. Not a soul in the floating ziggurat had the guts to follow him or even ask who'd lead now, and he and Runa walked out of the atrium and onto the main landing balcony uninhibited.

Ahead of them, they could see his geist Brittany bobbing up and down near a portal, a wooden chest chained to her back. A few val'kyr from the minor balcony had congregated there, chattering among themselves about what had happened and turning to regard the two newcomers anxiously.

Runa grit her teeth and growled angrily. The other val'kyr had been cruel to her, and her time as a minion in the class order had been much worse than Garamonde's time as an adventurer. "I need a moment," she whispered to him, and he nodded respectfully as they approached her fellows.

The ringleader of the other val'kyr, a rather large blonde who'd subjected Runa to numerous hazing rituals, took a step forward. Unaware of how much her raven-haired interlocutor despised being humiliated, she still approached Runa as if they'd only experienced minor misunderstandings.

"What exactly is going on-"

The blonde's words were cut off when Runa punched her in the face. It almost wasn't even a punch so much as it was a part of one fluid movement. The now free woman's arm smoothly moved outward along with one of her steps, and her former tormentor's skull rattled as she hit the floor like a sack of rocks.

Not giving the others time to intervene, Runa pulled out her battle axe and held it all the way down behind her back. A huge, 180-degree swing brought the blade down on the ringleader's neck, decapitating the winged warrior and banishing her to eternity. The other val'kyr scattered and flew away, clearly terrified now that the former new fish had decided to stop playing nice. Wiping ectoplasm off of her axe and smiling with an enormous grin, she looked up to the black knight.

"Okay, now I'm ready."

"Congratulations," Garamonde told her as they joined the geist on the empty balcony.

"Oh, you too," she chuckled. "Shall we?"

"We shall. Brittany, to Dalaran!"

"Yes, we go! Big city, many souls!" the geist sputtered.

With that, the three of them entered the portal to the city of portals, leaving Acherus behind them for good.


	3. The Deal

In one of Dalaran's many shops for portal providers, the black knight sat at a table in a room crowded by artifacts and arcane tools, sealing an agreement with one of several transportation magi, as they were called at that establishment. The two of them did the math meticulously, exhausting each other's patience as they settled on their terms.

Gareth, the high elf specialist who'd been assigned to them, scratched his head while reviewing the initial request made over an hour prior. "Alright, let's see here...what we have is a request for officer accompaniment, and to two separate continents. The first trip is to a designated danger zone, for which the client takes responsibility for any harm or damages to all parties involved, officer included. So we have a total of three portals, not two, since I'll be returning back to Dalaran after two stops. That much is clear, yes?"

"Crystal," Garamonde replied with a forced politeness.

"So the first portal will be used only for four persons and a horse since the officer is included in this case, and the portal must be of the large category to accommodate your winged friend. The second portal may need to accommodate up to twenty persons since you may be raising more minions for personal service, so that's a longer period of time. This is all correct?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Okay, and your geist deposited the cash at the bank and has a valid Dalaran bank note, yes?"

Garamonde held his hand out to Brittany and accepted the sealed bank note, then handed it to Gareth. The elf opened it and inspected the letter stamped mere minutes before the final meeting, double checking the numbers. The mage flashed a cheesy, smug smile and flicked the letter with his finger in a manner which grated on the black knight's nerves.

"Yep, that checks out. Sixty-three thousand gold pieces have been deposited." Gareth handed the letter to an associate and stood up from the table. "Now, I believe we're all set. From what I understand, you have all of your belongings with you already, yes?"

Garamonde rose and nodded as the two of them squeezed past aisles of doodads toward the back of the shop. "Indeed. The three of us are ready, and if you have all you need, then we'd prefer to make haste."

"Right-o, then. We prepared everything we need while you were handling the financial end of the bargain, so you can step right this way, and...well, step through our portal, I guess."

He guesses? Garamonde cringed at the elf's lack of precision in speech, but he knew he had to tolerate the unfortuitous manner for the duration of the trip. Lacking a hearthstone, he was unable to travel save by conventional means, and the plan he had didn't quite grant him such leeway.

The trio followed the portal mage into the back of the shop. Wings folded, Runa took great care not to knock anything over, though she still appeared nervous as they passed by numerous glass cases. Once they were in one of a series of rooms containing porting mechanisms, she relaxed and straightened up again. Brittany tried to walk into the circular device before the ritual had even begun, forcing Garamonde to pull the geist back like an unruly dog.

"Want to go, go to want!" the geist sputtered, causing Gareth to edge away from her.

"Yes, well, just give me a moment here." The mage activated a device on the contraption, triggering the familiar glow of a portal. He held his hands out, channeling a measure of his power into the opening passage to another continent. "Okay, please step through ASAP," Gareth grunted, though he might have been overselling the effort.

Wasting no time, Garamonde stepped through and felt the corrupted soil beneath his feet. Runa followed, though she floated above the ground to avoid making contact. Brittany stuck her fingers into the dirt and began searching for herb samples on instinct.

Gareth followed them, sealing the portal and taking a deep breath as if the effort had taxed his mana pool. The way in which he obviously worked at appearing nonchalant about their location was yet another irritant, and the black knight ignored their living transportation until further notice.

Charred ruins and corrupted dirt crunched beneath his boots as he observed. At first, he could barely even remember the area he'd been cut off from, but little by little, the memories came back to him. It wasn't the first time he'd gazed upon the wreckage of a past life.

"This is it," Runa murmured as she floated to the same vantage point. "This was Brill."

All across the treeless hills, the dirt smoldered with chemical corruption. Neon green sludge gave off noxious fumes, obscuring the remains of what could have been structures, sentients, or wildlife. A scar of permanent death marked the landscape going south, spelling doom for the living and undead alike were any brave soul foolish enough to tempt its power. All semblances of civilization were gone - all examples of buildings and settlement erased. What were once the quiet forests and blight lands of Tirisfal Glades were now a wasteland hostile even to the walking dead.

Although the trio lacked normal senses of taste and smell in undeath, a whiff of the fumes burned in their nostrils, warning them from any attempts to stray too closely to the bubbling, pulsating pools of muck. Brittany seemed particularly bothered by the effects, and the geist hurried back and forth anxiously.

Unlike the environmental irritant, the sentient irritant impressed his presence upon them.

"So I take it you're all from Brill?" Gareth asked while joining their side. He mimicked their body language as if doing so constituted bonding, but he only succeeded in looking like a severely underdressed court jester.

Runa and Garamonde glanced at each other silently. She left him to continue his observation for signs of undeath and answered first.

"No, neither of us are. I'm from the Howling Fjord in Northrend; he's from a hamlet in the Hillsbrad Foothills. We both happened to be in Brill for a period of time. I call it fate, he calls it choice, but that's how it happened."

Whether or not Gareth was actually interested wasn't entirely clear. If he wasn't, then he put up a halfway decent front. "Those are certainly different places. So, are your kind like, ghost warriors of Aeyir, right?"

The relatively youthful elf had an almost naïvely chatty manner. Even though she winced at his annoying voice once or twice, she kept talking to keep from offending him. In a land cursed by a plague of permadeath, they'd be in dire straits if he became upset and ditched them. "Sort of, for some of us at least. Not all of us live up to such ideals, though. In life, I thought I was destined to become a victorious battlemaiden, but my half-sister grew jealous of my success in training. On the eve of my first tryout for my village's militia, she stabbed me in the back."

"You mean, like, she betrayed you to stop the militia from accepting you?" Gareth rhetorically asked in a presumptuous manner that made Runa want to piledrive him.

"No, I didn't say that; I said backstab. As in, my own flesh and blood literally stabbed me in the back. With a knife. I was sleeping, and I remember suddenly waking up to sharp pains in my back and heart. I'd been sleeping while facing the wall, so I couldn't see what had happened at first. When my soul passed on, I saw my body laying there with the knife in it. She took my place in the tryouts and was admitted to the militia...she died a few years later from tuberculosis, as I found out."

"So then you became a mighty warrior in the Halls of Valor!" Gareth said pompously while gazing over the desiccated horizon.

"No. I didn't even imply that. I was raised as a lesser val'kyr by one of Sylvanas' nine greater val'kyr during the siege of Andorhol. Then I just spent a lot of time patrolling Brill for attacks which never came, and being bored a lot. That is, until I ended up in the Broken Isles."

This time, Gareth at least had the common courtesy to exhibit caution in his presumptuous nature. "And that's when you...valiantly chose to join the Ebon Blade to fight the Legion?" the elf asked.

"Nope. I lost a friendly duel to a paladin, left the Forsaken camp to blow off some steam after losing, and then got jumped by a bunch of Ebon Blade val'kyr. I pretty well hated my time there until Garamonde and I teamed up."

"Ah, so he's like the other half of your Legion-fighting duo! I take it he was a hero among the Forsaken before being raised as a death knight?"

Runa fought to avoid sneering at their ticket out of there. "Ask him," she said tersely. She has to avoid adding 'yourself' at the end of her sentence, which would have revealed her annoyance even while releasing a measure of it.

"So what about you, my good General?" Gareth asked like a tool, automatically turning to his other customer without any real thought.

Still focusing on the solid shapes rising from the charred soil, Garamonde answered with little interest of his own. "I'm from Hillsbrad," he said without looking.

"Yes, so I've heard. And you were raised during the war in Northrend?"

"No."

"No? Was it later, then?"

"Earlier."

"How much earlier?"

Also aware of the fact that they had to cater to their portal mage to a certain extent, Garamonde grimaced beneath his helmet and tried to both talk and watch the rising figures in the muck at the same time. "I was a Knight of the Silver Hand in the First War; I fought alongside Khadgar and died."

"Khadgar was my teacher!" Gareth beamed.

"In the Second War, I was reanimated with an Orcish necrolyte controlling my body, and I fought as a death knight for the Old Horde. I almost killed Khadgar, but one of the Windrunner sisters shot me with an arrow through the heart."

"Khadgar was my teacher!"

"Anyway, in the Third War, I was raised by Arthas as one of his death knights in Lordaeron before the retreat to Northrend. I remained with the Scourge until the war against the Liche King, during which I was turned and brought to my senses by Runa and a group of adventurers. I returned with them to Brill and tried to live out my life, though those plans didn't succeed for long."

"Aha, you decided to fight the Legion alongside Archmage Khadgar!"

"I said nothing of the sort; please try not to interrupt. As I was saying, my plans didn't succeed due to a scoundrel known as Howard Blie."

"Was he like a...like a Legion turncoat, or a voidwalker in disguise?"

For a few seconds, Garamonde thought back to his anger management sessions in Brill. To castigate the elven mage would temporarily relieve his irritation but bore the risk of spoiling his plans there in the ruins of Tirisfal. When Gareth began to look at him unsubtly like a big child, Garamonde realized that waiting too long might increase his ire, and so he indulged his ride out for the time being.

"Howard Blie was the mayor of Brill. We never did see eye to eye, and I'm sure that he'd already sought reasons to have me removed from the city. In the early stages of the war against the Legion, my fellow death knights followed our former class leader to infiltrate Undercity, release a prisoner, and then slaughter dozens of innocent dragon whelps. One entire dragonflight has been doomed to extinction, while another is now severely endangered, all in pursuit of artifacts."

"Yes, I heard. A lot of people blamed all death knights for the massacre of the dragon whelps. It seemed unfair."

"I'm glad to hear you feel that way; Mayor Blie certainly didn't. After the Battle of the Broken Shore, I received a notice that all of my assets in Brill had been forfeited and that I'd been exiled from the Forsaken in absentia. I was stranded and penniless, and the Ebon Blade smelled my desperation like a bunch of begging dogs. Until this morning, Runa and I had both found ourselves trapped in an organization just barely tolerated by the rest of the civilized world and likely marked for extermination by most dragonkin."

Gareth nodded and hummed his agreement the whole time, sort of like a poor communicator who'd taken a workshop on active listening and suddenly considered himself an expert. "Interesting, interesting. And what about your geist?"

Brittany didn't notice that they were talking about her and continued trying to bite her own ear. That anyone would take an interest in the walking corpse seemed like either a conversation for its own sake or a curiosity impossible for people over the age of twelve. The black knight shook his head.

"She was a serial killer in life who poisoned customers at her flower shop for fun. She's insane and would warrant destruction were she not totally subservient to the commands of a sentient being."

"That's fascinating!"

Just as Garamonde was finally about to address Gareth's annoying mannerisms, Runa drew his attention away. "They're coming," the val'kyr whispered to him.

"Who's coming?" Gareth asked, to no answer.

Garamonde took a few steps in between pools of the neon green muck to get a better look. The bubbling, pulsating movements had grown more stiff, lifting the liquid up off of the ground like solidifying magma in a strange world of undeath. Shapes poked out from the slop, pushing their way into the hazy air much like chicks would push out from an egg shell. Brittany chattered and Gareth gasped, but their new interlocutors spoke not a word as they pulled themselves out of the chemical-stained ground.

Jerking and tearing themselves into standing positions, the remnants of the Battle of Lordaeron came. Flesh and sinew had long melted away, leaving only cold-eyes skeletons representing every race of Azeroth and Outland. Species not usually thought of as susceptible to undeath lurched out of the toxic slime, dragging only the most well-crafted metal weapons which withstood the chemical onslaught. Tauren, Draenei, gnolls, worgen, even a saberon from the alternate timeline rattled their bones and approached alongside the expected orc and human skeletons. Armed to the teeth and some even wearing intact armor, the droves of hollow undead cursed to idiocy and ignominy surrounded them.

Rather than attacking, the scores of aimless undead all stared at a shining beacon in the group. As Garamonde mounted his deathcharger, he held up a long staff in his hand. A light blue crystal nearly resembling a block of ice floated in a mahogany cage at the top, dumping cold mist into the air and pulsing with the eyes of the hollow undead. Moronic and bereft of conscious thought, the skeletons actually let their jawbones slack open as they beheld the staff like an idol. Death magic merely advertised its presence rather than infecting the skeletons, providing a point of reference for brainless entities who, until then, had existed without binding leadership.

Once the death magic infused in the assembled bones beat in rhythm with the enchanted staff, the black knight addressed the shambling horrors in a gravely voice. "To whose call do you answer?" Garamonde asked.

In a single voice, the dozens of skeletons answered in unison: "We hear; we obey."

Garamonde grinned beneath his helmet. "To think that so many have considered these ruins to be a hostile wasteland...all these risen bones needed was a leader." Prodding his undead horse back to the portal mage, Garamonde closed his eyes for a moment and basked in the freedom of command once more. For the first time since the Dark Portal had opened, he was leading troops of his own free will again, without the chains of an unwanted master. "Let us go to our final destination," he said happily. How foolish he was, given his experience with the frustration of the world, to think it was over that easily.

Frowning like a diva on a power trip, Gareth folded his arms and stood defiantly as if he weren't surrounded by dozens of armed skeletons.

"The deal is off."


	4. The Deed

A few dozen ruddy weapons gleamed in the neon fields of Brill's remains. All eyes followed those of their new master, thus focusing on the recalcitrant high elf defying a being who could strike him down in an instant. Under normal circumstances, that is.

For all of his hard earned power over the foolish, for all of his long held convictions on summary discipline for the unruly, for all his newfound freedom from control, Garamonde was beginning to realize the limits of independence in the world of the living. Restraining his desire to harshly educate the portal mage, the black knight sneered beneath his helmet and paused for a few seconds.

Eventually, he'd regained enough composure to speak. "Gareth, my boy, I must confess my ignorance as to what could have invalidated our deal," he said calmly.

Spoiled rotten, Gareth continued to fold his arms, not the least bit bothered by his surroundings. Had payment not been up front, he likely wouldn't behave so petulantly, but he already had what he wanted. "It should be obvious!" the mage huffed. "We agreed to take along twenty minions to your final destination; you've raised five times that many! This is a small army!"

"No, this is a company. I wouldn't call it a proper army until I can muster a thousand or so personnel, including support staff."

"What - I don't need your mansplaining!" Gareth said to his fellow man. "A deal's a deal, you paid for a certain number of moments. I'll need...I'll need...well, more moments to teleport this many people to another continent!"

Garamonde sighed, openly advertising his frustration. He never had been a good actor, and dishonesty didn't come naturally to him. "And yet you've already transported your clients out this far. If you abandon us here, then your establishment's reputation will be ruined, and possibly open for lawsuits when I can book conventional transportation and get back there. Even if you teleport us back to Dalaran, you'll have to return a portion of my payment because a return trip - even with extra persons - is only a fraction of the cost of a second portal to my intended destination. I did read our contract, mind you, and I can assure you that I've done the math. Thoroughly."

The smug smirk on Gareth's face melted off like a child's dropped ice cream on a hot Westfall afternoon. No better at hiding his true feelings than the knight, the mage paused for a pregnant moment while casting his eyes from side to side while mentally counting. Once Gareth realized that his diva behavior had backfired, he folded in on himself, much as that hypothetical child who'd lost his ice cream would.

"You changed our deal," the elf whined. "You're forcing me to transport so many more people, and you're not even letting me choose if I want to or not."

"This is a teachable moment, young man. I've been as surprised by the great number of lost souls seeking a leader as you; consider this an unforseen complication on the job. There is no position on Azeroth where you can live without such mishaps affecting your life; whoever led you to believe that work always proceeds as you planned has deceived you. This is a day where you must accept circumstances beyond your control, and it won't be the last of such days. You do have one choice available to you as you reassess your position, however: you can sulk and pout as you still perform the inevitable task anyway, or you can change yourself instead and view this as an opportunity rather than a calamity."

Gareth continued to pout. "I don't want my day to be like this. What opportunity is there in the loss of free choice?"

Tired of the mage's immature entitlement mentality, Garamonde decided to hit below the belt, figuratively speaking. "Our final destination has treasure. You can keep it."

The notion of a concession inflated Gareth's ego once more, and a measure of pompous pride returned to his pout. "Valuable treasure?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I can guarantee you of that. Many wondrous treasures, both in the form of cash as well as antiques and liquid assets. I'm not in need of it. Transport us there without complaint, and you're free to take what you like."

"Well...Okay, I guess," the portal mage replied. He raised a finger as if to add another retort, but wisely retracted when he remembered the 'without complaint' stipulation.

Waving his hands in less ostentatious gestures than before, Gareth opened the second portal per their contract. The action obviously taxed him far less than he'd attempted to portray in Dalaran, revealing the depth of his fraud. Not seeming to realize that he'd exposed himself, the elf held the portal open with ease. The circle shimmered into existence, revealing red-rock badlands on the other side.

Not even waiting for an invitation, Garamonde pointed toward the portal with his staff. The ranks of skeletal soldiers marched through, falling into uneven formations due to the differences in dimensions among the racial composition of their cohort. Runa flew in with them as a scout, leaving Garamonde and Brittany to enter last. Gareth wasted no time in following them, still pouting but also thinking about possible riches for his accommodation.

The heat of Durotar mixed with the humidity of the ocean, prickling at the flesh of whoever still had it. The contrast to Tirisfal was huge, especially given the time of day - the sun was still rising.

A light breeze touched them all as they stood on a cliff overlooking a fort with decidedly human architecture. A rusted gate hung open between them and the edge of the cliff, marking an end to the rocky area where they found themselves.

Garamonde felt a surge of energy as he gazed over their surroundings. He'd never been to Durotar, but he'd studied maps enough to know exactly where they were. Switching his grip on his staff, he tapped the butt of it on the dry soil. "Excavate," he ordered his minions. Dozens of bony fingers plunged into the dirt, digging like animals and sending dust into the air.

"So...where's the treasure?"

So lost in the moment had he been that Garamonde had forgotten about their annoying travel companion. He turned to the side to find Gareth pouting again. No longer able to withhold the truth, Garamonde began to reveal the exact nature of their bargain.

"Beneath your feet," the black knight replied.

Like a tool, Gareth actually checked the bottom of his sandals first before actually taking a look around. The skeletons had dug nonstop, reaching the first target of their trip rather quickly. Eyes darting around the stones in the rocky area, Gareth gasped when the reality dawned on him. By the time he noticed the tombstones, Garamonde had already activated his staff again.

"Rise...the world is not yet finished with you," Garamonde commanded.

Dirt rose on its own accord as the denizens of the graves crawled out. As skeletal as the multiracial force from Tirisfal Glades, the new additions to the bony army were noticeably uniform in shape. An equal number of human skeletons rose and stood at the ready, their eyes glowing blue with the same hollow obedience.

Panicked, Gareth looked from the disturbed graves to the fort below. "This is Tiragarde Keep!" the high elf shrieked.

Garamonde ignored him entirely. "Minions, retrieve all valuables for our guest when you're done cleansing this land of Alliance presence," the black knight ordered.

"Wait, I didn't agree to violence!" Gareth protested. The skeletons marched out of the cemetery all the same, leaving the elf to fret over a world he couldn't control.

Nudging his horse toward the gate, Garamonde regarded Gareth like the temperamental child he was. "You wanted treasure, didn't you? It's right down there in that fort."

"Not like this! I didn't agree to this!"

Sick and tired of the mage's voice, Runa loomed over him. "Hey, guess what time it is?" she asked with a devilish grin. Clearly intimidated by the Amazonian guard, he didn't answer at first, spurring her to deliver the verbal punchline. "Bonk time!"

"Bonk time?" Gareth asked like a total rube. "What's bonk time?"

Runa swiftly hammer-fisted the elf on the top of his head, knocking him unconscious and delivering the physical punchline. Gut laughing until she worked the giggles out of her system, she composed herself before floating next to Garamonde as he rode down a ledge to the seaside fort.

Garamonde pointed toward a poorly defended side entrance of Tiragarde. "Assault their barracks first and slay anyone who's sleeping," he ordered his skeletons.

"We hear; we obey," they all answered in unison, causing the first watchman to sound an alarm.

As the undead soldiers broke into the fort and initiated the slaughter, Runa landed and stood next to Garamonde. "Those who still sleep don't yet pose a threat; wouldn't it be wise to leave them and attack the awoke and armed enemies?" she asked casually as if there wasn't a raid occurring right in front of them.

The two of them lazily strolled under the broken side gate of the fort, nearly oblivious to the heads rolling as the black knight dismounted and entered the blood-streaked barracks. "On the contrary, these sleeping soldiers here were the prime targets. Were we to attack the woken enemies first, the din of battle would have roused those who were sleeping here anyway; our troops would have been forced to fight on two fronts." He absentmindedly raised his staff and activated its energies again, sending tendrils of green death magic into the bodies strewn about the bunks and canteen. "By eliminating the easiest targets in a sneak attack, we've robbed those more capable of their support."

Without even waiting for the several dozen reanimated corpses to fully stand up, the two of them walked back outside to see the carnage just as it entered the Keep. Those skeletons retaining armor led a charge to break down the central fortification's door, prying their way in as their swifter, unarmored comrades squeezed past them to run amok inside. "That makes quite a bit of sense, actually," Runa replied while fanning herself from the sun. Even an undead val'kyr wasn't used to the Central Kalimdor heat, apparently.

Those enemy soldiers who'd been raised inside the barracks finally filed out. A second wave of the undead, this time those who still bore flesh on their bones, turned to assault their former allies through secret entrances to the Keep which only they would know. The few remaining Alliance soldiers by the main gate of the fort rushed to their doom as they assaulted the rear of the skeleton army. Garamonde merely followed the trail of dead bodies left in the wake of his forces, carefully raising more mindless minions to return the favor of the back attack. More pleased that he'd been with his plans for a long time, he didn't even notice the unwelcome guest who'd caught up to them.

A slight feeling of warmth tingled at his back around the same time Runa ducked in front of him for cover. The crackle of embers reached his ears around the same time the heat source disappeared, eliciting an irritated sigh from the black knight.

Turning around slowly, Garamonde found their portal mage staring them down. Enraged and fueled by a vengeful fervor, the high elf clenched and unclenched his flaming fists. "You tricked me!" Gareth shouted while launching a frostfire bolt. His eyes widened when Garamonde's inherent magic resistance caused the bolt to dematerialize merely by entering the knight's general vicinity, and the high elf began to realize the predicament he'd found himself in.

Garamonde planted his staff in the ground, allowing it to broadcast resonating pulses or death magic to a series of rodent and lizard corpses just beneath the surface in their area. Paying no mind to the undead critters running toward the Keep, he addressed his hired mage with open palms.

"A knight does not lie, my boy. I promised you treasure, and I can guarantee you that there's plenty in there. As for the method of appropriation, then you expressed neither misgiving nor curiosity. No one is responsible for your impetuous greed except for yourself." When he took a step toward Gareth, the elven mage began to cast another spell. "It doesn't have to be this way."

Fear mixed with entitled resentment in Gareth's eyes. "She hit me! You tricked me! You changed our deal! You're killing members of the Alliance! You exploited my talents!" he screams in a shrill voice. The level of anger gave the impression that he was used to having his way and had never truly known disappointment in his life. "I am not a pawn!"

The first fireball was the fiercest. Unlike the other spells, Garamonde actually had to make a bit of effort to stop it. By holding out his open palm in a halting motion, he merely blocked the supercharged attack with merely a sliver of his power of disenchantment. A spell which could have ended the life of a magnataur merely dissipated when it hit Garamonde's hand, ceasing to exist without burning a thing. Trinkets allowed Gareth to cast two more fireballs, but both of them experienced diminishing returns and were dispelled as soon as they drew near to their target. A rather skillful, high-powered barrage of arcane missiles slammed into Garamonde, every one of them popping out of existence as soon as they touched the surface of him without even disturbing the air around him. An odd, fascinating spell of arcane energy which Garamonde had never even seen before blasted him, but a simple raised finger caused the unknown energy beam to break apart like a pike shaft breaking against an arcanite shield.

Fatigued and drained of mana, Gareth frantically reached for a potion from his belt, only for Garamonde to use his death grip on the bottle and telekinetically pull it away. Bloodshot eyes stared at him angrily. "I was trained by Archmage Khadgar himself," Gareth screeched. "How is this happening?"

The soft song of metal dragged on metal echoed as Garamonde pulled his runed arming sword out of its scabbard. "Don't grieve; Khadgar failed to damage me as well, during our brief conflict in the Second War. I'm unable to cast most spells associated with my class...I can count what abilities I possess on the fingers of one hand, including my anti-magic shield. But..." He took a few steps toward the cowering high elf. "...if you're only capable of a few skills, then be sure you excel."

Before Gareth could react, Garamonde had already extended his arm in a perfect thrust. The knightly sword pierced the mage's abdomen so cleanly that Gareth felt nearly no pain. "No!" Gareth cried as the runes on the blade began to glow. Garamonde pulled the weapon out. "No," Gareth repeated weakly while falling to the ground.

"You had your chance to return to your home," Garamonde said while wiping the blood on his arming sword with the frond of a palm tree. "Brittany!" he called.

Soon enough, the geist came bouncing from wherever she'd been raising heck. Eager and prepared, she crawled onto Gareth without even needing specific instructions. "Brittany is florist, best florist!" she spattered inside of the bag over her head. She took a vial of undead plague from her belt and popped the cork off merrily, forcing the glass tube down Gareth's throat. The high elf choked and gagged, writhing spasmodically as his veins darkened and his skin turned grey. "More zany friends, fun fun!" The geist sputtered while skittering off into the Keep to join the mayhem.

Runa plucked Garamonde's staff out of the ground and handed it to him, then sneered at the convulsing mage. "A fireball isn't commensurate with just bopping him on the head," she said irately.

"Yes, he did carry himself with the attitude of a brat who'd never been pranked before," the black knight replied. Sheathing his arming sword and tapping the butt of his staff on the ground, he regarded the desiccated high elf with as much utilitarian disinterest as he granted the skeletons. "Rise," he ordered.

Too weak in personality to resist, the man once known as Gareth rose to a decrepit lurching position. Resembling a wretched without the trembling, the undead elf spoke in a hollow voice: "We hear; we obey."

"We could really use a portable portal conduit," Runa laughed.

"Indeed; this was a most auspicious appropriation." Garamonde looked to the Keep, wherein the worst of the fighting had come to an end. Skeletons dominated the towers and the roof, and all the windows had been broken. "I do believe we can formally refer to this lot as an army now," he said, pointing to a mass of animated ivory exiting the Keep's gates triumphantly.

He waited for a few more minutes as the madness and mayhem tapered off. Not a living soul survived in Tiragarde Keep - not even the critters thanks to the undead squirrels spontaneously raised by his army of the dead spell. Skeletons of almost every physiology and nation as well as gracious additions of zombified humans convalesced in the fort's walls, crowding in and lining up to behold their new master. Garamonde turned toward the brainless carbon unit which was once called Gareth.

"Time to make our final move...we'll need a much easier portal this time. The gates of Orgrimmar await."


	5. The Dead

Beetles and prairie dogs scampered about the main highway in northern Durotar that afternoon. Though the sun had not yet risen to its full extent, the grunts sat lazily beneath tents along the road, reducing their patrols to mere visual scans. Not that there were any threats to speak of: the arid climate was enough to deter any would-be troublemakers. All seemed quiet for hours. That is, until the portal opened.

The crackle of energy was strange to see outside of a large urban area, and a few of the trio of grunts sitting by the side of the highway stirred. Slowly, the familiar image of a portal opened, revealing another part of the peninsula. The wavy image of hundreds of bodies, however, sent off an alarm.

"Hey, what's this?" a younger grunt asked as a knight clad in black rode a deathly horse through. What appeared to be a dark spirit healer followed alongside a weird hunched creature, though the sight of such out-of-place foreigners made sense when coupled with the random portal. What followed all of them, however, is what made the grunt shout "whoa."

Rank after rank of armored soldiers marched through. Bones shimmering and tattered clothes hanging, they marched slowly and in perfect lockstep as the unfamiliar army followed the highway north. One of the three grunts didn't wake up while a second stood slack-jawed. The youngest of them sprung into action, however, speeding off to the north without even speaking to his fellows.

Over the hills and through the cactus patches he ran, running as fast as he could toward the capital. Legs pumping and heart pounding, the new recruit scanned the flat landscape for anyone else he could pass the message on to. He was alone, though, and the responsibility of alerting the Orgrimmar city guard rested solely on his shoulders. Fueled by panic and purpose, he pushed himself to his absolute limit until he found the highest cliff towers of the fortified city poking up above the horizon. Another group of grunts were stationed on the side of the road as well, being the nearest outpost to his despite being an hour away.

When they saw how frantic he looked, his comrades hurried to meet him just as he collapsed in the red dust. Water was splashed across his face as they fanned him off, seeking out whatever message he'd rushed to bring. "Undead army!" the young grunt gasped before passing out in their arms.

Throwing together a stretcher from acacia branches and their spears, the other grunts dragged him into the gates of Orgrimmar and raised the alarm. So used to international crises and dimensional invasions, the civilians remained remarkably calm as they retreated behind the high city walls. Traveling merchants and wandering swineherds all brought their belongings inside, leaving a contingent of defenders to intercept the supposed invaders.

Among the ranks stood Eitrigg, suited up yet slightly skeptical of such an unexpected invasion. The weathered orc held his hand out to a goblin tinker to receive a spyglass more typical of naval engagements. The tool worked well, however, and he was able to spy the beginnings of a military march toward the front gates.

"Undead army," Eitrigg muttered under his breath.

As he continued watching, he noticed the party leading the head of the column. A death knight rode a death horse at a less than lively pace, all weapons withdrawn. A val'kyr floated next to him bearing a white banner of peace, and the hundreds of skeletons behind her carried their weapons at ease. Camp followers and local peddlers tagged along next to them, participating in the march without harm or peril. Wagons and huts they passed on the road were left untouched, implying either a foolishly bold ruse or a sincere mark of nonaggression.

Grunts, braves, and headhunters all ambled restlessly, clearly perturbed by the slow march. Another one of the newer recruits spoke up impetuously, though the young man's impatience proved useful in breaking the silence.

"Orders, sir?"

Eitrigg watched the skeleton soldiers approach for a few more seconds before handing the spyglass back. "Come with me," he replied, though he didn't specify whom he meant. A group of more experienced troops shoved their way forward and mounted dire wolves that didn't even belong to them, joining the greying veteran as he rode out onto the beaten highway.

Dust flew up into the air as the raiders approached the unfamiliar army, far more so than had flown up around said army. The walking corpses and bones were taking their time, ambling along as if they were in no particular hurry. Eitrigg kept a hand on the pommel of his axe regardless, ready to strike if the need arose. The wolves came to a halt without turning, facing the outsiders head on. Eitrigg scanned the raised dead for any signs of recalcitrance, but to his surprise, they all ended their march save the single knight mounted on an undead horse. An obvious human, the man was indiscernible as to his loyalty; the problem with humans risen from the dead is that they could be playing either side of the factional war. The old orc rode forward, leaving his backup a few steps behind as he met the undead commander.

Showing appropriate deference, the black knight saluted and extended greetings first. He failed to remove his helmet, however; Eitrigg knew that doing so was customary among human nobles, and the concealment wasn't lost on him. He maintained a displeased down as he waited for an explanation to be offered.

Fortunately for them both, he didn't have to wait long. "I come bearing a gift for the new Warchief," the black knight said in an echoing voice characteristic of former Scourge servants, "as well as for the Horde."

Eitrigg maintained his frown even when his curiosity was piqued. He'd seen many deceptive tricks in his day, but the stranger seemed unassuming enough. "The Horde hasn't requested a gift...nor would it," he replied, sparing the stranger no harshness despite the latter's polite front.

"A gift is never requested, and I wouldn't assume the Horde to ask for favors. No, this is a sincere token of respect, as well as a representation of my readiness to rejoin your ranks."

Torn between acknowledgement and caution, Eitrigg sought a proper response. He knew that humans tended to be softer, and fonder of formality and pleasantries. To return the stranger's outward civility might have been more judicious, but to lower his guard when defending the city gates could prove disastrous. Instead, the old orc decided to subtly push for further explanation before accepting the proverbial handshake just yet.

"Rejoin?" Eitrigg asked. "A turncoat, then? A truant soldier?"

The stranger shook his head. "An exile, separated from the Horde without trial. A prodigal son who has returned."

"Oh? And who might this exile, so wronged, really be?"

Without pomp or suspense, the black knight removed his helmet, revealing a grey yet mostly intact face lacking the destination of most undead. Aside from the lack of hair or a nose tip, the undead human nearly looked healthy.

"I am Lazare Garamonde."

For a few seconds, Eitrigg wondered why he should care. The letters floated around his mind until they coalesced on old memories, however, and when he realized that he knew whom he was speaking to, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"Lazare...Garamonde? The General? The same commander who destroyed the Burning Legion forces defending the Gates of Antorus?"

"Indeed."

"The same commander who cleared the entire path to the Burning Throne with only a hundred troops, allowing the rest of the world's forces to storm the seat of the Legion?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"The same commander who was considered the Ebon Blade's saving grace compared to the other class orders?"

"It is I. I do hope that whatever you've heard of me returns to a trustworthy source."

Realizing that he was granting the outsider far too much praise, Eitrigg closed his mouth and tried not to look so surprised. He certainly wouldn't respond to indirect questioning by a man who was still, essentially, an outsider, but the fortunate find in such a returning commander wasn't lost on him. Once he'd regained his composure, he regarded the outsider with a stern but unbidden respect. "Order your troops to remain here, without wielding their arms, and you will easily find your audience," he said.

The black knight waved a profane staff in a circle. "I've already done so; they won't even react to inspection without my express permission, now. The sanctity of the Horde capital is assured."

Noticing that the outsider had obviously been hoping for such an admittance, Eitrigg felt comfortable dropping platitudes and common courtesy. "You," he said while pointing to one of his raiders, "form a perimeter around these soldiers. They're not to be allowed freedom of movement on their own accord."

"Yes, master!" the raider replied.

Much as they would have done with a hostile force, the raiders spread out to form an octagon around the ghastly army. Not one of the risen dead reacted while the Orcish cavalry surrounded them, staring blankly toward the gates of Orgrimmar as they awaited further orders. Once Eitrigg could see that the area had been secured, he rode back toward the main forces protecting the city. The death knight followed, saying nothing given that nothing was said to him.

Eitrigg slowed down only slightly when they passed the grunts waiting outside the gates. "Watch them until ordered to do otherwise," he said curtly while passing a young Frostwolf man wearing an officer's insignia.

The living orc and undead human rode through the capital city in silence. Behind Orgrimmar's walls, business carried on as usual in a grim reminder of how used the citizenry had grown to such disturbances. Beyond the gates, none of the pedestrians even seemed to recognize who the outsider was and what exactly was happening. At the great hall, Eitrigg dismounted and led Garamonde to the entrance. The honor guard outside the door didn't even interrogate them, possibly due to the assumption that whoever was with Eitrigg had already been vetted for security.

Within the dimly lit interior, they could already hear the sound of voices squabbling over whatever minor political disturbances had been brought to the Warchief's attention on that day. When Eitrigg and his guest reached the final flap of centaur hide leading to the main hall, they paused; there was no announcer on duty. Perhaps they were between shifts, or the current announcer had been pulled away for some other task. Eitrigg's forehead creased as he tried to think of what to do. He could eavesdrop on the rather unimportant matter being debated - a budgetary discussion, he guessed - and noticed that most of the Horde's most notable figures were also absent. If he wanted the Warchief's attention, now was an opportune time.

Eitrigg looked back at the undead human. "You know the protocol," the orc said gruffly before entering the hall.

Inside, they found a number of lower-ranking officials whom Eitrigg didn't recognize, all of them gathered near the far walls of the hall. Sylvanas Windrunner sat on the throne opposite the entrance, looking positively bored as Gazlowe and Nathanos Blightcaller double checked a materials shipment request in front of her. Eitrigg felt his guest stiffen at the sight of one more official, another Forsaken, leaning over the piles of requests. He glared at Garamonde briefly as a warning to watch his tongue in front of the Warchief.

The group gathered around the throne didn't notice the newcomers at first. "Do they really need these many bandages on the warfront?" Nathanos asked out loud.

"Yes, you'd be surprised at the new combustive crossbow rounds the Alliance has. Those leave a lot of marks," Gazlowe replied, just as oblivious to the pair approaching the center of the hall.

"Alright, well I suppose we must-"

"Not so fast!" came an irritating, uppity voice with a fast pace to it. Eitrigg recognized the former city official from Tirisfal Glades interrupting. The man had no official position, but he'd leveraged pity for his city's destruction to wedge himself in the middle of many an administrative discussion. The way Garamonde bristled spoke of bad blood between them, but the annoying politician continued speaking before Eitrigg could growl a warning. "Let me see that, they've requested far too many provisions at Darkshore. It's already ours!" the former Tirisfal official said.

Gazlowe just rolled his eyes, but Nathanos was more diplomatic. The Blightcaller's eyes shifted from the Tirisfal politician to Sylvanas as if seeking direction. The Warchief appeared agonizingly uninterested in the discussion, leaving Nathanos out in the proverbial cold. "Mister Bly, no territory is truly ours in a situation like this. The Alliance is surely itching for perpetual war; there's no need to hoard-"

"We're called the Horde for a reason, Blightcaller!" replied the man called Bly in a shrill voice.

"Yeah, it's actually a different spelling from the word you're thinking about," Gazlowe muttered.

"We need to be conservative in how we dispense our supplies! My city, the magnificent settlement of Brill, was lost due to mismanagement of our defenses!" Bly protested, garnering an irate sneer from the Warchief, though he was too daft to notice.

"Yes, Mister Bly, you've told us all about the loss of Brill," Nathanos sighed. "Quite a few times."

"My city was lost! Destroyed! Poof - gone! How can we repeat the same mistakes again?"

"I'm pretty sure that not delivering bandages to wounded troops is a mistake," Gazlowe muttered again, though the civility of both him and Nathanos was drowned out by the room-filling bravado of Howard Bly.

"And now, I cannot - no, I will not - stand idly by and watch our warehouses depleted for the frivolous requests of some uncivilized frontline commander!"

"Provisions in a warehouse serve not a single soldier."

Though the voice wasn't particularly loud or aggressive, every single person in the great hall of Orgrimmar turned to look. Clerks, minor faction leaders, even the trio arguing over budgetary issues all paused in their own conversations to see the pair of visitors standing in front of the throne. There were no clear reasons as to why the sentence earned so much attention in a rather busy room. Perhaps it was the fact that the speaker was situated in the middle of a great empty space, or the fact that nobody had expected him to interrupt. For whatever reason, all eyes fell on to the black knight who'd spoken and then Eitrigg, who felt a twinge of discomfort at his companion having spoken without an introduction.

Most reactions were plain and unassuming - the guest was neither threatening nor outwardly distinguished, and the great hall saw its fair share of unexpected visitors. A faint, distant wave of recognition washed over Nathanos' face to contrast with Gazlowe's dismissive caution, forming a curious triangle with Sylvanas' sudden interest. Howard Bly, however, looked as if he'd seen an angel (the Forsaken probably weren't perturbed by ghosts, by Eitrigg's reckoning). The uppity civilian official with a personality oppressive in its presence and weight suddenly shrank, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. The crotchety undead human's pointy mustache wiggled and he actually leaned forward, blinking a few times at the newcomer.

Without checking with Eitrigg first, Garamonde took a step forward. "To stockpile provisions for its own sake constitutes a mistake so foolish that few would consider the notion...not even a lowly bureaucrat lacking battlefield experience would be likely to posit such a course of action."

"Don't approach the Warchief without permission!" Eitrigg whispered to Garamonde harshly, causing the black knight to halt his approach.

Unfortunately for Bly, the politician's inability to close his mouth for long proved his undoing. "G-g-General Garamonde...is that y-y-y-you?" Bly asked nervously.

The level of anger radiating from Garamonde was palpable to the point that the two grunts posted by the door anxiously waved to Eitrigg for orders. Even Gazlowe subtly backed away from the group of undead humans, though the goblin still watched with a brand new fascination as the rage boiled inside of the otherwise cold soul in front of them. Without even moving, without even talking, without even outwardly changing in any fashion, Garamonde broadcast a resentment which had obviously compounded over many years of bitterness.

Nobody could act before he reached for his warhammer.

"Here's a hint!"

By the time the four-pronged crow's beak had slammed against Bly's head, those gathered in the great hall hadn't even noticed Garamonde lift his arm. The Bec de Corbin connected with Bly's temple so fluidly that the man's head detached from his neck without suffering cranial damage; it flew right off, soaring across the great hall until it hit a pillar, breaking into hundreds of disgusting pieces.


	6. Closing

A/N in the movie trailer guy's voice: "Last time, on Petitioning the Banshee Queen..."

Without checking with Eitrigg first, Garamonde took a step forward. "To stockpile provisions for its own sake constitutes a mistake so foolish that few would consider the notion...not even a lowly bureaucrat lacking battlefield experience would be likely to posit such a course of action."

"Don't approach the Warchief without permission!" Eitrigg whispered to Garamonde harshly, causing the black knight to halt his approach.

Unfortunately for Bly, the politician's inability to close his mouth for long proved his undoing. "G-g-General Garamonde...is that y-y-y-you?" Bly asked nervously.

The level of anger radiating from Garamonde was palpable to the point that the two grunts posted by the door anxiously waved to Eitrigg for orders. Even Gazlowe subtly backed away from the group of undead humans, though the goblin still watched with a brand new fascination as the rage boiled inside of the otherwise cold soul in front of them. Without even moving, without even talking, without even outwardly changing in any fashion, Garamonde broadcast a resentment which had obviously compounded over many years of bitterness.

Nobody could act before he reached for his warhammer.

"Here's a hint!"

By the time the four-pronged crow's beak had slammed against Bly's head, those gathered in the great hall hadn't even noticed Garamonde lift his arm. The Bec de Corbin connected with Bly's temple so fluidly that the man's head detached from his neck without suffering cranial damage; it flew right off, soaring across the great hall until it hit a pillar, breaking into hundreds of disgusting pieces.

Nathanos actually flinched despite his usual calm demeanor, and Gazlowe fell down for no apparent reason other than surprise. The two grunts from the door shut the entrance, leaving Eitrigg to wield his axe. "This wasn't a part of our agreement!" the old orc told the death knight just as Howard Bly's headless body finally hit the ground. "What is wrong with you?"

This time when everyone's attention was drawn to one source, there was a sense of finality to the act. A slow clap started, almost sarcastic or mocking in the slow rhythm which only picked up ever so slightly at the end. Sylvanas sat lazily in the throne, clapping as if she'd just witnessed a theatrical performance. Bly was most certainly dead, though - permanently dead, not undead - which only caused those gathered in the hall even more confusion as to why their leader was applauding the act.

Shifting to push herself out of the throne, Sylvanas clapped two or three more times as she descended toward the group of people gathered around the decapitated corpse. Only the faintest of smirks marked her otherwise stoic features as she approached, though her subtlety seemed more a mark of caution than arrogance.

"Well played, General," Sylvanas said calmly even when stepping over Bly's body.

In reaction to her address, Garamonde bowed to her, though Eitrigg was still on alert. "Warchief, my agreement with him was a mere petition to you - he said nothing of this," the old orc said while pointing to the scattered remains of Bly's head.

"That's probably not the sort of thing a stranger would announce anyway," Gazlowe mumbled, though he was more curious about the act of vengeance than disapproving.

"Audacious, indeed; an act not to be committed unless the actor is assured of his success." Sylvanas tilted her head to the side while evaluating the black knight's posture and body language. "Yes, I remember you. We acquired your services after the defeat of the Liche King," she said, the obvious sign of recognition flickering in her eyes.

Garamonde looked to Eitrigg, seemingly for signs of opposition before speaking. "You are correct, Queen Sylvanas; at one time, my fealty was pledged to the Forsaken. My loyalty was unwavering."

"Yet here you stand, as an outsider among us," she replied without resentment or mockery. There was, however, a sharp inquisitorial tone to her diction. "You claim the mantle of loyalty in spite of having left."

The black knight didn't seek approval before speaking this time. "Exile and emigration belong in separate domains," he said, using the diction of urgency even when suppressing any signs of passion in his voice. Sylvanas raised a long eyebrow questioningly.

"Go on..."

Nathanos lifted a hand as if to protest, but he lowered it and held still once he realized that the Banshee Queen was being serious. Garamonde loosened his grip on his war hammer, causing everyone in the room except for Eitrigg to breathe a little easier. "My departure from the Forsaken was the doing of Bly, carefully planned in the long term and executed amid the infiltration of Undercity by a group in which I was unjustly stereotyped."

"I'm...pretty sure that an entire dragonflight is going extinct now because of death knights, too," Gazlowe surreptitiously commented through the side of his mouth.

Garamonde didn't bother to look to the diminutive speaker, though he did acknowledge the comment. "The coalescence of the Ebon Blade's affront to both the Forsaken and the dragonflights occurred at the time of my initial arrival to the Broken Shore. Bly saw his chance after a long term personality clash between us, and he capitalized on the opportunity. He denounced members of my class in Brill's town hall and attempted to rouse public anger against us. Though I was told that nobody cared, nobody noticed when he had my assets seized and my identity documents burned."

Although Sylvanas listened closely, her response was swift without seeming terse. "And now you seek readmittance into our faction after slaying one of our own, and without my permission," she replied in a voice so calm and courteous that one might think she was intentionally masking a threat. "On what grounds would you appeal for such clemency now?"

"I appeal on the grounds of utility," Garamonde replied just as swiftly but without the vague menace. "Bly's mayorship ended with Brill, leaving you with an unemployed bureaucrat uneducated in the craft of war. His position had been gained based on nepotism and now-deceased familial relations; mine, prior to my exile, had been based on a record of victory on the battlefield."

Clearly enjoying the display, Sylvanas smiled more openly. Her visage appeared to be a mix between that of a cat toying with its prey and that of a wolf measuring an outsider joining the pack; whichever image hers leaned closer to was a matter of interpretation. "So your basis is that you're simply better at your job than he was, thus giving you the right to eliminate him and make the decision - rather presumptuously - on my behalf?"

"My basis is that success must conquer sycophantry; that merit must overcome patronage. It's a basis founded on my ability to accomplish missions rather than fill out forms; my reliability as a field commander whose tasks won't require observation; my proclivity to provide sound strategic analysis, even if I must openly disagree with my liege."

A light flickered in Sylvanas' eyes, and her smile tightened. Whether she was incensed or pleased by his audacity (or both) was unclear. Though it couldn't be said that the tension was thick - indeed, not a soul in the room was personally invested in the outcome - there was certainly a measure of communal curiosity as to how the Warchief would deal with such an outrageous display in what was supposed to be the capital city's most secure location.

Sylvanas, however, didn't take long to respond. "Very well," she sighed with waning interest. All of them, even Garamonde himself, were caught off guard. There was no addendum, no condition or ultimatum, nothing beyond the simple phrase. Everyone gathered in the hall, even those uninterested in the appeal of Garamonde or Gazlowe or whoever, gaped at the terse ease with which the Warchief responded to the outsider's imposition.

"I...your highness?" the black knight asked in relieved disbelief.

"Yes, yes, your request is approved. Hurry along now," she said dismissively, much as she would wave away a peon petitioning for a new mop.

In order to prevent any sort of backfiring of the meeting he'd orchestrated, Eitrigg intervened quietly. "Ah, Warchief...is this individual one of us now?" the orc veteran asked.

"For now. Far be it from me to deny a proven track record." Sylvanas looked at Garamonde one last time. "You're dismissed, General. Congratulations on your return."

"Yes, my Queen," Garamonde replied with a bow, visibly irritating the orcs with his refusal to use the term 'Warchief.'

"Warchief, he's amassed hundreds of hollow undead minions outside the city!" Eitrigg said, nearly in protest at her dismissiveness.

"See to it that he garrisons them in a location where they're ready for immediate deployment. If they're hollow, then they can simply be stored in warehouses alongside the cartons of bandages and other material." As if she'd reminded herself of the previous matter at hand, Sylvanas turned to Nathanos and Gazlowe. "Can we free up room in those warehouses for the skeletons?"

Seeming to forget about the petition as well, Nathanos and Gazlowe looked to each other before the latter spoke. "Yeah, of course. If we respond to that request from Darkshore, we could have a decent amount of floor space unblocked. The back of that warehouse could hold quite a few bodies if those cartons were out of the way."

"I'll add my voice to support that analysis," Nathanos said, continuing where they'd left off and leaving the bizarrely brief display behind them.

Realizing that their welcome had been worn, Eitrigg used his axe to usher the black knight toward the exit. Though he was still irritated that his guest had drawn a weapon without permission, he breathed easier knowing that his effort had led to the recruitment of a few hundred boots on the ground.

Outside of the great hall, the two of them mounted up in silence. The presence of an undead army outside the gates still hasn't reached the heart of the city, signaling a profoundly desensitized populace. Eitrigg, however, was quite cognizant of the presence and figurative weight of such a fighting force in close proximity to the city.

"Don't make me regret this," he said gruffly as the two of them rode straight out of Orgrimmar.

Garamonde didn't look at him, though there was a sense of solemnity rather than truancy in the way the black knight continued to watch the road in front of them. "Understood" was his only reply.

Outside of the city walls, Eitrigg led them back to the undead army. The raiders had maintained their perimeter the entire time, and a fair amount of grunts remained in the middle of the highway for backup. One of the raiders approached their elder, who wanted nothing more than to see the assembled bony soldiers taken where locals and merchants couldn't see them.

"The General will command his minions to follow you," Eitrigg said without even clarifying the matter with said General first.

"To where, master?" the top ranking raider asked.

"To the last warehouse before the third dock at the port," Eitrigg said while pointing eastward to the coast. "The cartons of bandages need to be moved out for a shipment to Darkshore; that will leave enough space for these minions to simply be stored there in waiting for deployment...along with the rest of the material."

"Very well then, sir. Uh...how do I...make them listen to me?"

"They will hear; they will obey," Garamonde said with a simple wave of his profane staff. The eyes of every undead minion flickered blue as he did so, and bones rattled as the entire skeleton army saluted. A few of the grunts down the road gripped their weapons a little more tightly. "I'll send my geist to relay any further commands necessary for logistical purposes. My only request is that the warehouse is kept chilled for hygienic reasons."

"That's even more of a concern to us than it is to you," Eitrigg said before turning back to the raider. "There's a cryomancer at the port whose duty starts again tomorrow morning; see to it that he enchants the warehouse's foundation to maintain a cool temperature."

"Yes sir!" the raider replied.

Once Eitrigg gave them a simple two-fingered salute, the raiders spurred their wolves to face eastward. The officer among them pointed in the direction of the port with his saber, causing Brittany to bounce forward, babbling ahead of them. The wolf riders herded the undead army onto a minor beaten path to the coast, leading a surprisingly brisk pace. Left only with Garamonde and his val'kyr, Eitrigg spent the next five minutes in silence as they watched the reanimated corpses march over the horizon.

Patient to a fault, Garamonde said nothing while Eitrigg collected his thoughts. As strenuous as the encounter had been, the living orc couldn't deny how fruitful it had turned out. His own troops awaited orders down the highway.

"You're free to your own whims for now; however, your lodging is your own responsibility," Eitrigg said curtly. In spite of his respect for the undead human, he still wasn't comfortable showing it. "Stay near the capital in case the war horns are blown and don't pull any more stunts."

"You need not worry. We have no plans to leave Orgrimmar, nor to draw attention to ourselves. We'll be fine...just waiting around here."

Though the tone was sincere, Eitrigg disliked the way the General remained standing in the middle of the road, whittling the day away without any worry for time. Then again, Eitrigg felt the same way about the Warchief, so he'd just have to get used to it.

He rode back to the unit of grunts waiting so he could disperse them back to the barracks. Soon enough, Orgrimmar returned to normal and civilians passed through the gates again. Garamonde and Runa continued waiting in the road, though, chatting with each other quietly and simply observing daily life in the capital. For damned souls who knew not of sleep nor hunger, the behavior might have seemed normal. Eitrigg waited until all of the grunts were gone, staying behind and watching the black knight and winged maiden even after traders and travelers began to pass him by.

Strong allies, they were. How long would peace last with such unliving beings leading the Horde, though? Eitrigg shook his head and rode away, returning to his post among the city guards. He had a feeling that the Forsaken would either be the Horde's salvation or its doom.


End file.
